The Diary of Knorth Kardashian West: A Womb of One’s Own

What’s up? This is my only avail for the rest of the day so let’s try to hurry this up, O.K.? So here’s the deal: as part of a fucking fantastic overall I negosh’ed with E!, I’m sucking on the reality-show teat before I’m old enough to even understand that metaphor. Mazel tov to me, I know. If you want to send gifts, I’m registered at your wife’s top night-table drawer.

What does this mean for you, diary? It means I’m going to be blogging—“life-casting”—on the regs in exchange for 10 percent of the backend of all ads sold against this feature, an executive producer credit on any future Kardashian spinoffs, the guarantee of creative control over all associated merchandising, and a fucking assistant that can keep from jerking off toGame of Thrones for long enough to have Seacrest’s desk e-mail me the language to the goddamn birth announcement that I asked for. Memo to Ned Schmuck over there: I wasn’t aware your degree from Harvard Business School was a double-major in Facebook and crushing Adderall. Go get my fucking sushi.